Kim Possible: A Darker Time
by thedoctor18
Summary: A darker take on a children's cartoon, with a different writing style, bizzare outcomes and rather unexpected twists. The story takes the famous duo (trio?) 8 years into the future and hopefully reflects their psychological states along with their life choices, being good or bad. How much have Kim and Ron changed over the years? Any comments on my work are welcomed. Disney


A beep was heard. Fifty three miles eastbound from Boston, on board the USS Vengeance, a ford-class aircraft carrier, a dark shadowy person stood up from the bed. There was no time for exhaustion, no time for doubt, no time to waste. Another beep soon followed. For Agent 73, the day has begun. Rushing down the corridor of the immense aircraft carrier, men and women were running alongside Agent 73. Their movements would appear chaotic to the naked eye, but everyone had their tasks and however chaotic they might have seemed, every single one of the crew members knew exactly where to go, what to do and what to expect when the alarm was heard.

The echoing sound of another beep went through the halls. At the rear end of the ship, Agent 73 had arrived at his destination. As always, the first one to manage to. People would think that the only reason 73 was first every time was because his cabin was the closest to the command room. They were wrong. Agent 73 was an ambitious perfectionist and at 26 years old, the youngest ever operative to be put in charge of a strike team. He was vicious and strict, tardiness and unpreparedness was not tolerated. Anyone who would dare any such actions, would regret it immediately. It isn't just a job. No, not for 73. For anyone else, maybe, but for 73 it was much more than that. A chance for retaliation, an attempt at forgiveness, a means of hiding from the dark ghosts of his past.

It's been five minutes since the last beep. Agent 73 stood quietly in a dark and empty room. The only light source was a row of small and weak beam lights cutting the room in two halves. The silence was interrupted when the door suddenly opened.

"Operative Bishop reporting for duty, sir!" A firm and strong voice said. 73 remained quiet, the only reaction Bishop got was a nod from the commanding officer. He looked at the soldier that stood in front of him, a tall and robust character with distinctive black hair. As per usual, army style haircut, short trimmed hair for maximum efficiency. Oh, how 73 hated ex-army characters. The only thing they ever knew was how to pull the trigger, how to toss a grenade in to do as much damage as possible, oh, the anger that he felt when he looked at Bishop. It wasn't that 73 hated him in particular, he hated the whole army. A bunch of simple characters that shoot first and ask questions later, Francis Bishop was a reminder of why he hated the army, and if it were his decision the army man wouldn't be on his team.

But, as much as 73 loved handing out orders, he had to cope with following orders as well. Bishop was a directive from the high-ups, so he had to stay.

One minute after Bishop went through the door, three more shady figures walked in. All of them with a similar figure. Average height, no distinctive muscle tone yet an athletic figure nevertheless. 73's hand-picked. "White, Harris and Chan on station, sir!" yelled the first figure that crossed the door and they all lined up respectively in front of their commander, standing right besides bishop. It was no secret that the three enjoyed a much more familiar relationship with their commander, unlike Bishop. The three of them knew that 73 and Bishop weren't on the best of terms. They never knew why, they never cared. White, Harris and Chan knew their place.

The dark and no longer empty room lit up. The roof opened up and the floor they were standing in elevated. To the five it was no surprise. They've done this before, it was sort of.. expected. The mysterious light source that lit up the room just seconds ago revealed itself. A full moon illuminating the deck of the aircraft carrier was the only thing on the sky. White looked up and squinted his eyes, only now realizing that it was in fact, deep deep night.

As the platform reached the top of the deck, 73's team automatically rushed towards the helipad. A brand new dark blue UH-60 Black Hawk was awaiting the heroic and famous commander and his team with its engines on. The pilot knew that fuel efficiency was not what mattered. Not to the infamous "bloodthirsty" Agent 73 at least, so the moment he heard who his passengers were, he started the engine and waited patiently.

In seconds, 73 and his crew were on board of the aircraft and the pilot increased thrust, lifting the mighty helicopter from the deck. There was no time to waste, they have wasted enough already. The helicopter re-adjusted its course for New York and at full thrust at nearly rocket speed began to approach the Big Apple. A monitor inside the helicopter lit up.

Colonel Jack Archer was sitting inside a brightly colored room somewhere in the American midwest. The fact that it was two in the morning did not seem to bother him at all. As director of the world's largest intelligence agency, he was used to staying up late. Archer pressed a button and turned towards a desk mounted camera.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the continent, his face appeared inside a very specific TV monitor on board of an aircraft, that in fact did not exist. "Good Evening" a voice similar to that of Jack Archer's came through the helicopter's sound system. "More like morning, director. What is the situation?" Agent 73 said. A swift reply followed. "At 1:52 AM alarms went off inside the New World Art Gallery in central Manhattan, our intel suggests that_ Andy Warhol's Campbell Soup_ is the target, your mission is to infil…" "Stop pulling my leg, Archer. The agency does not handle burglaries, now you tell me what the heck is going on or this whole operation is a bust!" Agent 73 yelled in anger.

Francis Bishop watched the whole conversation in disbelief. He had seen Agent 73 talk to the director like this before, but it never ceased to amaze him. The brute disrespect for his commanding officer, the foundation for every army structure is being shattered in front of his own eyes… can he do something about it? As much as the thought paralyzed him and filled him with disgust, 73 was his commanding officer. Could he interfere…? Wouldn't that make him a hypocrite? Thought after thought raced through Francis' head, but in the end, he simply stood there. Paralyzed. Archer had the same feelings as Bishop had. Unlike Bishop, Jack Archer knew that he needed Agent 73. He never said it to anyone, but Agent 73 was his most valuable asset, and if tolerating insubordination was the price he had to pay, he was more than willing to do so. 73 has proven his worth and the director needed him. At least.. for now.

Clearing his throat, Jack Archer continued with his sentence "... infiltrate and interfere if necessary. We have acquired information that Syndicate operatives may be the ones involved." A short but welcomed pause was interrupted by the director. "Inside the helicopter, you will find everything you may need. The building plans revealed a roof window in close proximity to the hostile entry point. Your orders are to go stealth and non lethal. Anyone we catch may be the crucial to revealing information leading to The Syndicate. Your ETA is three minutes. Good luck, commander." And just like that, without waiting for any reply, Jack Archer terminated the transmission.

The Syndicate was a cold blooded criminal organization. Nobody knew where they came from, or when they became what they were today, not even the Agency. The organization led by "The Doctor" as he liked to call himself seized power in the underworld with incredible swiftness and force. Within weeks, any crime families that used to prosper in the U.S. of A. became nothing more than pawns in the hands of "The Doctor" and those that refused vanished almost immediately. Human trafficking, drug dealing, arms distribution, anything in the sorts became a monopoly of The Syndicate overnight.

But neither of these things were the worst things about The Syndicate. The very worst thing was that… nobody knew anything. Nobody knew who was running the party, nobody knew where they will strike, nobody knew where to find them, where to talk to them… almost nobody, that is. This new intel from the director was the first piece of information they managed to obtain about The Syndicate for months. The information was big. If only Agent 73 could get to New York in time, he could maybe get the information he was so desperately searching for. The final pieces to the puzzle he spent years and years cramping together. His thoughts were interrupted by the pilot's announcement.

"We're here. New World Art Gallery." The pilot had to shout out the last words, as Agent 73 had already opened the door of the helicopter, and the sound from the rotor blades prevented any verbal communication. No time to waste. "Showtime!" the commanding officer in full black clothing announced. His team stood up and moved towards the edges of the helicopter, tossing down ropes through the roof window of the gallery.

For Agent 73, time stopped. As he was rappelling down the rope into the gallery, his mind started racing. Why is The Syndicate here? What do they want with a painting? This isn't their usual MO… no, there has to be something more to this. They wouldn't downgrade themselves to thieving. Could the Director's intel be wrong? Or perhaps… 73's thoughts were interrupted by his feet touching down onto the marble floor. Pulling out a semi-automatic sub machine gun, Agent 73 scanned his surroundings through the iron sights of his weapon. He hated weapons, perhaps more than army soldiers. It was.. cowardly. Hiding behind a weapon, a tool designed to kill people - something Agent 73 rarely resorted to. But it's different now. If The Syndicate truly is here, he will need every advantage he can get. Fighting fire with fire, as he tried to justify his reason for being armed today.

His team dropped down. Each and every one of them armed, each and every one of them prepared to fight, and die - if necessary.

It was a monstrous hall. The New World Gallery was known for its megalomaniac interior, gigantic halls, expensive exhibits, billionaire patrons. They had it all. Every artist dreamed of having his creation once put on display in this gallery. Through the skylight, the faint light coming from the Moon on the sky started to fade. It was as even God himself wanted to make it harder for Agent 73. Just before the commando decided it was a bad idea to stand in the open, especially underneath the only light source inside the building and wanted to move away, a crack was heard.

It was only a split second, but a sound definitely came from behind the painting, put on display on a panel in the center of the room. Knowing protocol, every member of Agent 73's team took aim in direction of the mysterious sound, not realizing they are being played.

"Global Justice! Come out with your hands up!" Agent 73 shouted out loud. He knew any attempt at negotiation would be futile in case it was really The Syndicate. "This is your final warning, surrender or be fired upon!" He shouted even louder than before. The thought that he is being ignored infuriated Agent 73. Nobody ignores him, ever.

Only now did Agent 73 realize that there is a chair approximately 10 feet in front of the painting. He didn't pay attention to it before, but it seemed odd. A chair so far away from the painting? It couldn't have been put there by the gallery, it is too far for anyone to see the masterpiece clearly, but why would the burglars place a chair in front of a painting they were going to steal? To admire it? "No, the chair is not important, eyes on the prize!" the agent reminded himself.

Being so busy thinking about the chair, and focusing on the possible danger in front of them, the team failed to notice that a dozen dark figures started to surround them underneath the skylight. The moment they were all in position, it happened. It took two or three seconds, but for everyone that day it seemed like minutes. Ambushed from behind Agent 73's teammates were grabbed by their necks and mouths and dragged down onto the ground by shadowy figures that disappeared back into the shadows the moment their targets were dealt with.

Agent 73 saw this happen. He was standing in the middle of the light, so he had a clear view on everyone. He saw them being grabbed by their mouths, dragged down onto the ground, immobilized and unconscious in seconds. He wanted to help, perhaps there was something he could have done but it was too late. His teammates were down on the ground and the shadowy people vanished. He panicked. He never panicked but something put him off in this picture. His team was down but he was standing and kicking. He's seen them take down highly trained men in seconds, but why not him? For the first time in years, his hands started shaking. Confused and frightened, he kept aiming at the only direction where he knew someone was, the painting.

The night got interrupted by red lights. For some red lights, for trained men - laser sights. This was not good. He tried to count the dots, four, five, they kept moving. Who knows how many are aiming at his back, how many at his head? Suddenly, the quiet was interrupted. "Drop your weapon!" a deep voice shouted over the hall. The echo of the hall amplified the sound, he couldn't tell where the sound is coming from, and even if he did - what then? There were no possibilities of escape. His best bet was to comply and hope that a window of opportunity came along.

With his weapon on the ground, Agent 73 was officially defenseless. Left at the mercy of his captors, he could only count on himself, his own skills to survive. Something came from behind the painting. A person. Was it a male, or a female? The room was too dark, he couldn't tell. The big full blue moon whose beams once came through the skylight was now completely hidden behind clouds. All of a sudden, a light source appeared. The chair and a small surrounding area by Agent 73 was the focus of a roof mounted lamp. The mysterious figure spoke out loud in a firm dominating tone.

"Take a seat, KP."


End file.
